


Unbearable Generalities

by kolosundil



Category: Horus Heresy - Various Authors
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Destiny, M/M, Siege of Terra, Suggestive Themes, at least two of you, general buggery, i know you've all been waiting for it, the thrilling sequel is finally here, well then
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-22
Updated: 2014-03-22
Packaged: 2018-01-16 14:28:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1350760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kolosundil/pseuds/kolosundil
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The night before all is decided, Horus gets a visit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unbearable Generalities

**Author's Note:**

> You thought it was over? Think again.

 Lovers doomed. Oldest of lore, most foolish of sentiments. The grandest of failures of humankind, the worst of their weaknesses.

The one most exploitable.

The one he cannot be constricted by. It scorches his skin in its intensity, leaves everything around him dull, tasteless, colourless. All other touches are ice.

Only he exists. Only he ties him down, to a world he does not care for, he does not serve.

He stands in the middle of it all, more radiant, more powerful, more real than anything he’s ever seen.  How can he not want him?

How can he not…

Every time he looks upon him, every time he lays a hand on his body, every time he hears his voice.  His insides sing, genetic flaws that make him obey, that make him adore, fully active.

And so much more. The potential, the flame, the unbelievable hubris. The Warmaster’s strength brought him to his knees, time and time again.

And its waste made him wish to weep. He sees the  futures spread before him, but instead of more possibilities the further one went, they became less. A million possibilities he had seen before, now all brought down to him dying.

He will die. He will die, and he can do nothing.

He will die, potential unrealized…

_Horus. Will die. At Terra._

He keeps telling it to himself. He keeps repeating what his visions show him. Part of him is pleased.

Revenge is not the point. Hatred is not the point. The point is victory. And how can they ever win? How can they win without him…?

They won’t. Or, they will, and then they will lose everything. Just like a flare, burning bright for a moment, to become only a pitiful remnant.

Just like what they were. Erebus smiles bitterly as he looks up. His steps have taken him to Horus’ quarters, more and more ostentatious as time had advanced.

He stands before his doors, waiting, breathing shakily. The two bodyguards say nothing, but they are obviously mocking him, with posture and cold lenses. He turns blazing red eyes to them, and their minds seem to retreat. Bravado was all well and good, humiliation as well, but the awareness of Erebus’ ability to kill them both with a glare turned out on top in the end. He looks to the door again.

He knocks, awaiting acknowledgement.

“In.”

He breathes out. Then he steps inside.

Horus has… Changed. He used to burst with power, it bled out of every orifice, uncontrolled, free, and apparent in his every move.

Now, he boils from within. Unlimited potential has finally… indeed, been realized, and it is ready to spring out. He is in control.

Erebus drops to his knees. “Warmaster.”

Horus looks down at him, fitted in his obsidian armor, lit from within with red. He is paler than he once was. “Why are you here?” his voice is rough, quiet and filled with menace.

The same question repeats itself in Erebus’ thoughts. “I don’t know,” he finally answers.

Now, that was a lie. A well-set one, but a lie nonetheless. He’s there to see him for the last time. To see Horus, not the brilliant strategist, or the unparalleled warrior, but Horus Lupercal.

Tonight, he does not inspire hatred in him, like he has for the past few years. He does not inspire disgust, and pain, and begrudging awe.

“You don’t know,” Horus repeats. He has still not thrown him out, so Erebus is hopeful. “Explain yourself, Erebus.”

The Apostle is silent, for a few seconds. “Tomorrow we exit in the Sol system. I am here to see if you have everything you require.”

“Why would I not? And why is that your business?”

A flash of memory, the Primarch’s hands on his sides, maneuvering him to the burning floor of a sacrificial circle. He casts his eyes down. “Shall I leave you?”

Silence, again. They were never silent, once. Always discussing, always leaving an audible imprint on the world. Now, Erebus cherished it as much as he feared it. Guilliman liked to say that Astartes knew no fear. He was wrong.

It is Horus who breaks it. “No.”

Another memory, his back hitting Horus’ chest, fingers bracing against the top of his spine. He shivers at the thought of touching these muscles one more time. 

Erebus watches the Primarch advance towards him. He is not afraid of Horus. What could he do to him that he has not done already?  He steps forth also. “..You have gone a long way from what you were, Warmaster.”

“Is that supposed to be a compliment?” Horus asks, the Talon coming up, tracing Erebus’ breastplate.

“It is a statement.”

“Ah.” Horus circles him, more curious than hostile. “Has your tongue finally run out of things to say, that you resort to such… unbearable generalities?”

Erebus does not answer. He looks up at the Warmaster. And he smiles, wordlessly. It is not as attractive as it once was. His flesh is no longer soft, now it is a dark, glowing brown, like an exoskeleton, horns protrude from his head. His lips still look soft, however, and his eyes, hellish red, are as focused as they have always been.

Horus, despite all he knows of the creature before him, despite all he has done to hurt him, shares the smile. “Silence suits you well.”

“..Thank you.” He waits. One, two, three… Four. “Would you like my blessing for the fight ahead?”

“I am already getting your father’s tomorrow,” Horus replies.

“…With respect, Warmaster… You will require all the blessings there are,” his voice is weary, uncharacteristically.

Horus agrees, with a shadow of a smirk. Erebus was right. He had made an infuriating habit out of it.

They have no time. Horus is unaware of it. He is unaware of how little time he has left, and yet it counts in Erebus’ head, second by second. The plan is laid out. The gods are pleased with it. And he… He has nothing to do but to go with it.

He doesn’t want to.

“…It would require you to kneel.”

“Disarm yourself.”

Erebus sighs, more for show than anything else, and puts his knife away.

“Approach,” Horus says in approval, once Erebus has no weapon. At the same time, he kneels down. In his gigantic armor, his head is coming up to the Astartes’ neck. It is, admittedly, an odd experience.

Erebus does so, and stands before him, biting hard into his flesh hand, drawing blood. He lets it soak his fingers, and lifts two, to the Primarch’s head. He draws the eight-pointed star.

More images flash in his mind, of pouring blood all over the Primarch’s body, of him covered in cuneiform, of the letters writhing against skin, of Horus scrutinizing him with bright, curious eyes.

He chuckles, making the Primarch look up. He is so different. But, so is Erebus. They have gone from visions of humanity magnified, to something else altogether. Their liaison with the Gods is showing on their skin, in their eyes, in their sharpened, beast-like teeth.

“What?”

“Nothing, Warmaster.”

“Please, share,” Horus says, the warning more than clear.

“How fitting, for the final world to burn as an echo of the first.”

Horus chuckles as well. Erebus draws the circle around the star in one quick, accurate movement, and begins to withdraw his hand. The Primarch grabs it into his gauntlet, and brings it to his lips.

His tongue is burning hot, lapping up at the wound. Erebus remains concentrated, keeping his thoughts under lock and key. They are not for Horus to see.

Erebus pulls back.

The Talon twitches.

Horus lashes out. Armor clangs together, before he begins to rip it off, piece by piece. Claws  tear through the bodyglove’s fabric, only to be discarded a moment later. The weapon bangs against the floor, plate following it soon after.

They crash together, the Warmaster dominating him, throwing him against the floor. Erebus is making sounds he cannot identify as his own. He thrashes into Horus’ hands, and he could… he can swear they’re trembling.

They do not simply touch. They gravitate together, hands, hips, chests, thighs, every inch of them that can touch locks together and moves.

Breaths catch, screams begin to rise from Erebus’ mouth. Louder, louder, then quiet and broken.

He calls out the Warmaster’s name, again, and again. His augmented hand digs into the floor, and breaks marble, sharper than skin, feeling no pain. The other one grabs onto Horus’ neck. He braces himself.

Erebus cannot breathe. Acidic saliva fizzes against the floor. As Horus pushes inside him forcefully, reality hits him. This is the last time he will ever touch him.

This…

This is the last time he will ever feel.

He spreads himself like never before, and gives in with a sigh. Horus stills, and opens his eyes.

“What are you doing..?” he asks, out of breath.

Erebus smiles, and leans up to his ear. Horus remains frozen. “I’m yours,” he mouths against the Primarch’s skin.

Horus does not answer immediately. His grip on Erebus’ waist tightens. “ _Lie_.”

“To the death,” Erebus tightens the hold on Horus’ neck. Just for one night, Erebus thinks. Just for one night, let it be true.

They stay latched onto each other, gripping firmly. The moment seems without end.

Horus leans down, and finally kisses him.

 “Mine.”

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to all those who go this far. D: You are so wonderful.


End file.
